They were in the Maji-khan’s tent, which was the biggest in Khur, save for the communal and council tents. It was also better appointed, with thick carpets, woven hangings, and brass lamps. Wooden trunks stuffed with books and scrolls lined the walls; on top of the trunks were figurines of every shape and size, made from bone, wood, metal, and clay. Gifts from petitioners and souvenirs from the Marksmen’s travels, Barkav had told him once. Rustan caught sight of an exquisite clay camel, a gift from the Kushan council, and suppressed the desire to smash it.
“Please, Father,” he said. “Grant me this, that I may be the one to liberate the souls from their bodies. It will lessen the evil I have done.”
Barkav frowned. “What evil? I am the one who passed judgment. You simply followed my orders. If there is guilt here, it is mine. I should have examined the evidence and questioned the elders more closely. Instead, I trusted these men. I have been punished for my complacence, and it will never happen again.”
Was that all the Maji-khan would say about his own culpability? How could he bear the burden of this mark so lightly? An innocent life should matter more.
“Yes, I obeyed you,” said Rustan, “and all I ask is for the opportunity to obey you again. Let me take down the two marks.”
“For the third and last time,” said Barkav, his voice like flint, “no. It is not your place to seek vengeance. If you would obey me, then do not ask for this again.”
Rustan gritted his teeth. His katari burned through its sheath, reflecting the turmoil within him. “So I just continue as usual?” he said, forcing calmness into his voice. “Pretend to the others that everything is fine?”
“You can tell the others what you wish,” said Barkav. “The elders know, and sympathize.”
Rustan swallowed the retort on the tip of his tongue, the one about where the elders could put their sympathy, but he couldn’t quite hide it from Barkav, who always knew how he felt and could often read his thoughts.
The Maji-khan’s grim face relaxed into a small smile. “I’m sure you won’t mean that, not when you’ve had a chance to cool down. Rustan, there is a lesson in this, and the learning of it will be the making of you as a Marksman. You are accomplished in both katari-play and the Mental Arts. But sometimes, the real talent lies in knowing when to do nothing. Knowing how to step back, forgive, and let go.”
“The day I forgive those two men is the day they stop breathing,” said Rustan.
“I was talking about forgiving yourself,” said Barkav calmly. “A much more difficult task, is it not?”
Rustan had nothing to say to that. After the Maji-khan had dismissed him, he stepped into the blinding white light of the afternoon sun. Almost everyone else would be resting in their tents. It was why he had chosen this time to confront Barkav. A part of him had known it would be an exercise in futility—but he had to make one final attempt.
He had killed an innocent man. What would the others say if they knew? And truly, did it matter what they thought? The fact of the man’s death was what was important.
Rustan remembered again the sounds of lament that had followed him out of Tezbasti, and his stomach clenched. It was a sound that poisoned his waking hours, that haunted his dreams.
If only there was someone he could turn to now, someone not of the Order, who could listen to him, perhaps even guide him.
But there was no one. Rustan had never known his father, and had known his mother too briefly to be able to call on her, or even remember her very well. There were the elders of the Pusht clan, who had adopted him and raised him for the first eight years of his life, but would they tell him anything different from what Barkav had said?
He doubted it.
He walked beyond the tents to the grove, wanting to meditate. The novices had planted shrubs of jessora, spicebush, spineberry, and ephedra there. Given enough moisture, the shrubs would bear fruit in the spring—provided a sandstorm did not destroy them first.
Rustan knelt on the sandy earth and closed his eyes. He waited for his whirling thoughts to still, but they did not. He waited for his burning katari to cool, but it did not. He had been uprooted, and there was nothing for him to hold on to, not even the katari he was bonded to, for the katari had failed him. Or he had failed the katari. Was there a difference?
Astinsai’s words echoed and clanged in his mind: How would he atone?
Part II
From History of the Order of Kali, by Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali
It is said that of all the Mahimatas of Kali, none were as wise as Shirin Mam, and of all her pupils, none were dearer to her than the orphan Kyra Veer. That is why she set her a test of the utmost difficulty at the coming-of-age trial.
The coming-of-age trial in the Order of Kali has four phases. The first is Veeran—isolation of the spirit and starvation of the body, so that one becomes an empty vessel, translucent and receptive to the visions of Kali. The second is Seeran, when the Goddess gives her disciples the dreams that will tell them who they are and what they might become. The third is Jeeyan, the unique task set by the Mahimata that the novice must complete in order to win her place among the Markswomen of the Order. In the fourth and final phase, Katari-dan, the Mahimata awards the successful novice the katari that will henceforth be her constant companion.
Kyra was fourteen when Shirin Mam judged her ready for the coming-of-age trial. This is not early; most Markswomen undergo the trial between the ages of twelve and fourteen. If they are not ready for it by then, the saying goes, they never will be.
The trial commenced at dawn. The Mahimata gave Kyra a flask of water fresh from a mountain stream, and bade her seek a place of solitude and quiet. There she must stay for three days without food or water or companionship. She was to drain herself of feeling and memory, words and desire. On the third day, she was to take just one sip of water from the flask. Then she must gaze into the water and pray to Kali. The rest was between her and the Goddess.
Kyra was gone for seven days, the longest that any novice had taken with the first and second phases of the trial. Some of the Markswomen of the Order were troubled, but the Mahimata was not.
When Kyra returned with the flask she was a wraith, weak and emaciated. Her eyes shone fever-bright and her step was lighter than a deer’s. The elders plied her with questions, but all she would say was that she had been in a cave up on the mountain, and that she had dreamed of doors.
Kyra had gone close to the spirit world, and the morning light seemed to pass through her. Her ties to earth and flesh had never been weaker. It was time for the third phase, Jeeyan.
The Markswomen gathered around to watch, thinking that the Mahimata would take pity on the novice and set her a simple task. Was not Kyra a favorite?
But Shirin Mam withdrew her blade and spoke a syllable in the old tongue, and the Markswomen gasped and stepped back.